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THE PARCHMENT 
IN THE HOLLOW 
HILT 

Thomas Wood Stevens & 
Alden Charle's Noble 


THE BLUE SKY PRESS 
CHICAGO=’.)i 


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Copyright, 1904, by 
Alfred G. Langworthy. 


To M. D. L/and L. McP. 


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T^hree taut strings hath a lute of mine 

That call to my Love o' the willing 
ears: 

One is vibrant of phrases fine^ 

Chivalry-singings splintering years; 

One is a murmur of loving and woe^ 

Passionate vows to inviolate shrine; 

And one is the Death-string solemn 
and low; 

These are my three strings: — Love^ 
didst know 

That all three strings are thine? 

— Robert Piere Mourir. 


A Script Concerning Robert 
P iERE Mourir, called Fortu- 
LAiSE, Poet and Lover : written 
by Antoine Rudelle, some- 
time his Pupil, and now first set 
into English. 

A MAN may go clean through 
this life, touching all manner 
of works and deviltries, with 
never a thought for the songs that 
relish his wine. He may love, and 
know nought of Queen Venus, nor 
of Helen that I'roy was sacked for; 
nor a word will he hear of the blind 
man who sang of Troy and other 
matters, unless he seek out how 
songs came to be made. Which if 
he do, he will most likely desire him- 
self to make them. And this is noth- 


T^hree taut strings hath a lute of mine 

That call to my Love o' the willing 
ears: 

One is vibrant of phrases fine^ 

Chivalry-singingy splintering years; 

One is a murmur of loving and woey 

Passionate vows to inviolate shrine; 

And one is the Death-string solemn 
and low; 

These are my three strings: — Lovey 
didst know 

That all three strings are thine? 

— Robert Piere Mourir. 


A Script Concerning Robert 
P iERE Mourir, called Fortu- 
LAiSE, Poet and Lover : written 
by Antoine Rudelle, some- 
time his Pupil, and now first set 
into English. 

A MAN may go clean through 
this life, touching all manner 
of works and deviltries, with 
never a thought for the songs that 
relish his wine. He may love, and 
know nought of Queen Venus, nor 
of Helen that I'roy was sacked for; 
nor a word will he hear of the blind 
man who sang of 7>oy and other 
matters, unless he seek out how 
songs came to be made. Which if 
he do, he will most likely desire him- 
self to make them. And this is noth- 


ing wrong, only he should first be 
sure he hath the gift. 

Now I, Antoine Rudelle, maker 
of hilts in brass and other metals, 
have not the gift. This, as my be- 
loved Master has assured me, was 
no fault of mine, but only because 
my father’s father — who died of 
the black sickness before I was even 
born — was a German. Still, know- 
ing I have not the gift, I have been 
taught as much of good minstrelsy 
as any hilt-maker in France, so I 
believe. And for this I set down my 
gratitude to my beloved Master, as 
herein to be further related. 

Another cause of this writing, the 
which, when it is done, I shall give 
to certain safe-keeping, came to me 
as I shall now make clear. 

Be it known that in all things ap- 
pertaining to song and letters I have 


been taught most patiently (and the 
more need of patience because of 
my father’s German father) by my 
Master, Robert Fortulaise, born 
Robert Piere Mourir. It is of him 
that I write here. And he, being 
shrewd as well as fiery in singing, 
spoke to me once in this wise, sadly: 

“Rudelle” quoth he, “I have told 
thee of all the poets of the world, so 
far as I have learned. No man knows 
more of them, you may rest upon 
it. But sometimes I am nigh crazed 
to think on the good singers who 
have died unknown. Gods, I am 
mad with it! How many excellent 
souls have loved this Fame — and 
she hath been as false as hell. ” 
Which wisdom set me thinking: 
what if my Master himself should 
die from the careless heart of the 
world? Which to prevent, I write 
now this testament. 


Know then, you to whom this 
parchment shall come, that it is 
wrought as an unfitting tomb for the 
sweetest soul of our time. I can see 
even now, across many years and 
reigns of many kings, how glad shall 
be God*s light to fall on it again; 
for, stained though it be with the 
ill pot-hooks of a poor hilt-maker, 
(pray for his soul where it shall be 
then) it may carry a new word about 
our very star of song. And even my 
name may be put in the books with 
his, because he has called me, some- 
times, “Friend,” and has deigned to 
dwell in my house, and to eat cheer- 
ily the poor fare my wife Jeanne 
made ready. For, saith he, “Evil 
days are on the world, and men in 
high places know the poets no long- 
er. So the poets must e’en be still, 
or sing for humble folk — for such 


as you, Rudelle. Ah, to have been 
born two hundred years ago! Woe, 
woe is ours. And with that he 
would fall to, eating like any com- 
mon man; but in the pauses his eyes 
were full of moonlit dreams and far- 
off sorrows. 

But you should hear my Master 
when he sings at the Companions 
Hostel, and his voice rings among 
the rafters. His eyes blaze as if they 
were afire inside. The men there 
laugh and cry out, striking their 
cups upon the board; and some few 
of them weep betimes. When my 
Master has told them his Ballade of 
the Bleeding Heart, the sour-faced 
inn-keeper himself has gone among 
the guests with a horn to take up 
their gifts, and has given it — cop- 
per and silver alike — to my Master 
— yea, and a bottle of Burgundy 


atop of it all. Though his round red 
wife scowls as if the song misliked 
her. 

And this is his glory. Which is a 
poor thing for so wondrous a man, 
but, as he hath said so often, evil 
times be upon us. And I pity the 
men unborn who may never hear 
from his own lips that Ballade: 

For her, dear heart, thou *rt fain to weep. 
Seeing her grave within the dell 
Where hazel shadows cluster deep 
As glow the eyes of Fontenellc; 

A legend of her love they tell 
To bless the hearts that love today, — 

The bleeding heart of demoiselle. 

La demoiselle du coeur navre. 

Silvery moonbeams sigh to seep 
Down through the leaves she loved so well. 
Yet hers is all the name we keep 
To save the name of Fontenelle; 

He met her on his road to hell 
And broke her heart upon his way. 


The bleeding heart of demoiselle. 

La demoiselle du coeur navre. 

Soft where the silver ripples creep 
Along the beach at Fontenelle, 

The breathless nightwind fell asleep 
And dreamed there lay beneath his spell 
The moonlit heart of demoiselle; 

But in more ruthless arms she lay 
And loved and listened, ay, and fell. 

La demoiselle du coeur navre. 

L* Envoi 

Dear heart, who loves the love they tell: 

The years have soothed her grief away; 

Sigh not for her of Fontenelle, 

La demoiselle du coeur navre. 

Once it chanced, when he had 
spoken this Ballade in the Hostel, 
that a man rose up, quick and hot, 
before ever the landlord had taken 
up the money, and made his way to 
my Master. This man was a rough 
fellow, looking and speaking like 
one from the South, and he glared 


at our poet, feeling with his fingers 
on his weapon-hilt. 

“ So, ” he cried sharply, “ I have 
found you, master devil's man." 

My Master eyed him coldly, and 
spoke nothing, but seemed put out 
by the fellow’s insolence. 

“ Blood of Our Lady, " cried the 
Southron, “ You dare to make a 
song of it — a jest of her — " He 
choked. 

“ Rudelle, " cried my Master, 
“ My cloak. " I brought him his 
cloak quickly, mine own hand on 
my knife; which the knave saw, and 
though I was mightily affrighted, 
he stood back a step. Then Mon- 
sefgneur Fortulaise swung past him, 
very proudly, turned at the door, 
and bade the company a hearty 
good-night. 

But afterward he never would 


sing that song, seeing how deadly 
powerful it was, as he said. There 
were other songs that he gave in its 
stead, and one new one that he made 
after that night, which was this song: 
I flung -the word at the portal, I hurled my 
scorn at the Word, 

I entered the hostile city, but I kept my hand 
on my sword; 

I drew to the deep pavilions at the western 
rim of the town, 

I paused by the white-walled garden as the 
dusk came sifting down. 

I knew my night was on me, and my Love 
would yielding be. 

And that at my serenading her heart would 
lean to me; 

For I heard from the white-walled garden the 
roses whispering still 

The song she had sung in the sunset, — and a 
warrior crossed the sill. 

Sudden his glance was on me, sudden his steel 
leapt nigh. 

And we fought by touch in the twilight, in 
the gloom of the empty sky; 


But my wondrous night was on me, and my 
red steel entered his side. 

He faltered and gasped and rallied, and thrust 
and sobbed and died. 

Much loved among the songs he 
made and sung in the Companions 
was this one which had never a name, 
only when we desired it we would 
ask for the song of Young Love. 

So this is the song of Young 
Love, which you will understand 
was never rightly the name of it, for 
a song should e’en as a child be 
christened unchangeably, but that 
is what we called it; these being the 
words even as my Master wrote 
them out for me : 

Young Love rode in from the West one day 
Up to my heart’s red door; 

I bade Young Love dismount and stay, 

“If that I do,” Young Love did say, 

“I’ll leave you nevermore.” 


“And what care. I?” said I to Love, 

“So long as you pay your score?” 

“Pay to be sure will I” said Love, 

“Pay with anguish and sorrow and grief. 
With flower-of-love and passion-leaf. 

Pay with laughings and tears and sighs. 

With Parting’s woe in Beauty’s eyes. 

With joy beyond belief 
Of maidens or of men!” 

So I bade Young Love ride on again 
And away rode Love. 

Yea, LoVe rode out of my life that day 
Out of my heart’s red door. 

Now every day is sorrow-day 
Along the Life-sea shore, — 

For Love came nevermore. 

So much had Monseigneur Rob- 
ert — for so he deserves to be called 
— sung of love while he was with 
us, that we made bold at last to ask 
him, of an evening, how came he to 
care so fiercely for that kind of poe- 
try. At first he seemed in a sort of 
study, when we mentioned it, Jeanne 


and I, so that we were afeard he 
might be angry; but afterward he 
smiled and sighed, and told us. And 
that tale I shall set down here, just 
as he told us the night before he 
went away. And Jeanne acted as she 
were the Lady Flordalis. But of 
that anon. 

Long before he came to Paris, 
my Master met in the South a 
Lady who was called Flordalis. 
And in his heart her image was en- 
shrined, as a garden’s reddest rose 
in the pale night, he said. This lady 
he wooed, as he told us how: but at 
last she died, and so ever after he 
has sung of love and lived a cold 
life. And the manner of his wooing 
he said he would tell, if Jeanne — 
just for the jest’s sake — would plav 
the lady. Which she did out of pity, 
for there was more of tears than 


laughter in his soul that night. And 
each song that he had made for the 
Lady Flordalis he brought forth, 
and when he had spoken them he 
gave me the writings, each one, say- 
ing for them all. “There for you, 
Rudelle, my friend.” 

First there was a little stave he 
made when first he met her, a^-walk- 
ing in a path by a vineyard; so 
Jeanne walked into the room as 
though she might be the Lady, but 
mighty afeared withal. My Master 
made before her a bow like to that 
of gentle blood, so that Jeanne for- 
got and curtsied, but he minded 
that not a whit, only spoke boldly 
out the lines, gazing at her as she 
might be the fairest under all the 
skies^ 

Love, hark to me who am thy love and slave: 
Grant thou the wonder of thy love to me 


That I may make for thee a deathless stave; 
So when thou art forgotten in thy grave 
Thy name shall live again, because of me! 

The next song was of the sort of 
an apology, and Jeanne listened to 
it shyly enough too, knowing how 
the great man humbled himself be- 
fore her for whose dainty ear he 
made the song: 

Love, it is true my periods fall 
Hesitant now upon the tongue. 

And thou whose worship should be sung 

For thine and Beauty’s coronal 

May of my chanting well complain; — 

For faintly dreaming, drifting by 
Valleys and heights of song in vain, 

I make no newly splendid strain 
Thy moods to meet, thy tears to dry; 

I merely sing a common sigh 
Unnoted in my rival’s reign. 

But at the last of it, knowing he 
had a rival, and that the rival was 
in power, she wept, as any woman 
might. So thereat he sang for her 


tears, drawing nearer, and Jeanne 
was so wrought upon that she flung 
up her head and smiled, and even 
then began to carry herself like a 
real lady, such was the worth of the 
poesy and the ardour of his voice: 

At one strain of minstrelsy 
Thou didst weep a silent woe. 

As though the song had wounded thee: 
Beauty, didst thou guess or know 
That while thou wert weeping so. 

Sorrow (who is chill and dull — 

All the world has seen him so!) 

Lost himself within thine eyes. 

And by hearing thy soft sighs 
Straightway was made beautiful. 

Then Monseigneur sat him down 
beside Jeanne, and spake his pil- 
grimage lay, which so moved her 
that she leaned to him, and he took 
her fingers and e’en touched them 
lightly with his lips. And all this I 
set down here, even to the little 


folly of my wife Jeanne’s play-act- 
ing, because so you may read his 
songs as well as otherwise, and that, 
too, you may know what manner of 
man he was, and how courtly: 

I made a pilgrimage 

With monk and clown and sage 

Unto the Holy Land; 

And on the long roadside 
The others drooped and died. 

Yea, all my band. 

But I whose worship knew 
The sanctuary true, 

I gained its rest; 

No homing bird could fly 
To fairer bourne than I — 

My Lady’s breast. 

When he had done with the pil- 
grimage, he came and leaned over 
Jeanne where she sat, and told her 
this tiny bit of rhyme: 

Love now! The loves of long ago 
Went long ago beneath the wave 
Of reeling Winter’s chilling flood 


That sweeps across the barren world 
And whelms, where’er its folds are swirled. 
The fairest hand, the reddest blood. 

Whereat she caught her breath, 
and went all red and white, sighing 
like a maid, and withal a6ling as the 
lady Flordalis must have adbed to 
the very life. Which was most 
wonderful, as I take it, for, though 
she came of honest people, Jeanne 
never could have learned aught of 
the ways of ladies in their loves and 
hearts. 

And when he had done she heav- 
ed a great sigh, and cried out 
sharply, “Antoine, thou lout, why 
did*st thou never woo me thus ?” 

“Ha* patience,'* quoth I; “I have 
not the gift.” 

Then she sighed again. I, mean- 
ing to comfort her, told her that I 
would straightway learn my Mas- 


ter’s verses, and tell them to her 
o' nights. Whereat he laughed low 
and silently, and said, “Thou art 
forgetting thy part, lady Flordalis. 
And the next song was that where- 
with I won thee. And thou wast 
leaning over a wall in a garden, in 
the moonlit silent night, when first 
1 sung it to thee." 

Then Jeanne went partly up 
the stairway, but finding nothing 
whereon to lean as a garden wall, 
she came down and climbed on the 
table; and I set up a great chest 
thereon for her to lie over. Mon- 
seigneur blew out the two candles, 
so there was but one left for a light 
in the room, and sang his serenade. 
And this was a kind of song they 
make in the East, and that men 
learned in Spain long time ago: 


Oh the chariot of Night is made of darkness 
And the axles of her wheels are ebon bars. 
The rims of all her wheels are shod with 
silence 

And the red eyes of her coursers are the stars; 
With the murmuring of Day below, behind 
her. 

She is drawing all the desert ’neath her veil. 
So the lovers of the Day will never find her 
Till they seek her where the eyes of Night 
are pale! 

Thou art fairer than the desert’s fairest 
daughter. 

Thy midnight eyes are deep as Gidar’s well. 
And the music of thy laughter shames the river 
And the beauty of thee shames the asphodel; 
With the crimson arms of Sunset flung around 
thee 

And the kisses of the roses on thy mouth. 

It was thus within the desert that I found thee 
Oh lotus-bosomed daughter of the South! 

Oh the chariot of Dawn is shot with silver 
And the bright reins of the Dawn are lean 
and cold. 

The nostrils of her steeds are flaming scarlet 


And the hooves of all her steeds are shod 
with gold; 

With the fragments of the Night around and 
under 

Along the East invincible she moves. 

And the million-echoed voices of the thunder 
Are the ringing golden footfalls of her hooves. 

I am waiting for thee. Love, within the 
garden. 

Come thou to meet the Dawn on Eden-shore, 
And the blossom of thy heart shall never 
harden 

For my love shall guard thy heart forevermore; 
Across the night to thee my love is calling 
Here where the robes of Night are drawn 
apart. 

So come to me, the reeling hours are falling. 
Come as the Love-Dawn to thy lover’s heart ! 

Now all through this song Jeanne 
leaned over the garden wall, look- 
ing for all the world like a fair Lady; 
and never had I known that she 
might be so fair to see. When he 
had done, and made an end, very 


low and fervent, gazing in her eyes, 
she came down as one in a dream, 
and went to him, and they went out 
through the door; all as it should 
have been that far time, when he 
had loved the Lady Flordalis, and 
had won her from her garden in the 
night. Then there was silence in 
the room, and I sat as one amazed, 
with the litter of songs in my lap. 

Then after a while they came back 
and my Master was full of dead re- 
grets and sorrows, as we had seen 
him sometimes before. And sud- 
denly he rose up, and bade us fare- 
well, saying the pain in his heart was 
like to the thorn of a red rose. He 
paced the room three times, and 
then cried out with it all. And filled 
thus with the fire of his woe, he 
burned for the South. That night, 
even while we were like to weep 


with him, he put on his cloak, and 
bade us farewell, and went from us. 

And this matter further I am 
minded to write down, with all apo- 
logy, in that it concerns him not, but 
is of ourselves, for whom surely the 
long aisles of time may not echo, 
never. But this I would say, since 
it in a manner hath some part in the 
weight and wonder of the songs he 
sang that night, for in the last judg- 
ment of poesy, men say, the songs 
that have wrought most mightily 
with hearts are the mightiest songs. 
And this that I have to relate is of 
Jeanne. For that same night, after 
he was gone, she came and hid her 
head in my breast. And then she 
kissed my hand many times, and 
wept, and rose up, holding my head 
to her very heart. A moment there- 
after she flung the tears from her 


eyes, and laughed gaily as I have 
not heard her in many a long day. 

The next morning when I arose, 
she had left a word for me, ill writ- 
ten, for she had never skill in letters, 
saying that she was gone to St. 
Catherine’s of Beauflaire; and that 
for such time as she could stay, she 
would pray for the soul of the Lady 
Flordalis. And all day, and ever 
since, there has been much of silence 
in my house. 

But this is meet, since I have this 
task to do: to make this parchment 
script, and to put it in safe and godly 
keeping, that it may glow again in 
the day, and let free for flight my 
Master’s songs. So now I make end 
to this script, signing thus, in the 
sight of God, my name, Antoine 
Rudelle, Hiltmaker, in Paris, 
Anno Christi, MCCCLIX. 


I T is recorded among the brothers 
of the monastery of the Sucre 
Coeur^ that a curious gift was 
once offered to their chapel. This 
was a silvery sword, with a curious 
gold-corded hilt made in the shape 
of a cross; and it was noted by the 
brothers that the hilt was very light 
for the metal thing it seemed, as 
though it might be hollowed out; 
which the brothers noted with some 
concern, feeling that the man who 
gave it was, in a manner, dealing 
other than honestly with his God. 

But after some nine-and-thirty 
days had passed,the man came back, 
and desired to have his gift again, 
seeming much distraught. When 
they would not give it, he begged 
only to have it in his hands. Which 
they granted, but no sooner did he 
touch it than he was seized with 


some raging devil, and swung it, 
point-wise, against the floor as if to 
crush the hollow hilt. One of the 
brothers grasping him to prevent 
injury to the property of the abbey, 
he as suddenly changed his rage to 
grief, and went all to tears and smo- 
thered outcry. And lo, when the 
monk released him, he turned the 
point to his heart, and fell upon the 
blade, so that it pierced him, and he 
died, bleeding and weeping, in the 
chapel. 

So through many years and chang- 
ing rules, the sword was never 
touched, till the story of its maker’s 
death had died out of the order. 
And in a later and a lighter day, 
they noted again the strangeness of 
the hilt, and bethought them to 
open it ; which doing, men came 
upon the Parchment here set forth. 


HERE endeth the tale of THE PARCH- 
MENT IN THE HOLLOW HILT, as 
written by Thomas Wood Stevens and Alden 
Charles Noble, and made into this book at the 
Blue Sky Press, 4732 Kenwood Avenue, 
Chicago, 111 . Of this edition there have been 
printed Two Hundred and Twenty -five cop- 
ies on Italian hand-made paper, and Twenty- 
five copies on Japan vellum, this being number 



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